Midnight
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: "La Medianoche." "The Midnight." It was what the people of Mexico called the Omnic Crisis. Years later, John was left to reflect that even if midnight had passed, dawn had never come.


**Midnight**

 _Bloody hell it's cold._

In his youth, when John Morrison had heard about Mexico, he'd automatically thought of a few things – cactuses (or was that "cacti?"), scorching heat, sombreros, Aztecs, and any number of things that holos imparted to a five year old. Now, many times that age, he thought of Mexico as he thought of many other countries in the world – "broken." As in, a country that was rebuilding from the Omnic Crisis, and would likely be rebuilding for decades to come. And out here, camped out in a ruined skyscraper in Veracruz, he was further reminded that some parts of the world might never be rebuilt. That some scars would never heal, and sometimes, ruins would be ruins forever.

Didn't stop him from feeling cold though.

"You're shivering."

He glanced at Ana – one eye through the scope of her rifle, the other peeking out at him through the gloom. There was no light source for either of them, such was the necessity of concealing their position.

"I'm fine," he lied, before abandoning that lie and asking, "aren't you cold?"

"No."

"But you're from Egypt."

"It gets cold at night in the desert."

And that, John supposed, was the end of that. The only words they'd exchanged over the past three hours bar radio checks with Reinhardt and Torbjörn, and that was a radio check forty-five minutes in the past. Keeping quiet wasn't nearly as important as keeping their luminosity to a minimum, but they were Overwatch. Professionals. Maybe professionals using the broadest definition of that word in some cases, but professionals nonetheless. And professionals kept their eye on the ball.

"It's midnight," Ana murmured. "They're late."

John glanced at his wrist watch, briefly pulling up his glove to see the green glow of **00:00** stare back at him. He frowned. It likely didn't mean anything. But he didn't want to be out here any longer than necessary. Because not only was it cold, but he didn't like being an assassin.

So he pulled back his glove, and glanced up at the night sky, the stars twinkling, the moon shining, and the heavens sitting in judgement. Asking, "how did it come to this? You saved the world from rampaging robots, now you're killing fellow human beings?"

 _What would you know?_

The sky remained silent, and John glanced at Ana once more. If she was put off by the operation, she wasn't showing it. But Ana didn't show much these days. He just couldn't tell if she didn't care, or whether she just went to extra lengths to show it.

"One minute past midnight," she murmured.

"I don't need a countdown."

"Right." She took a swig from her hip flask." La Medianoche," she murmured. She glanced at John. "Midnight."

"I know my Spanish."

"I don't doubt that."

"And I know that you're not the talkative type, and that it's what Mexicans call the Omnic Crisis." He followed suit and took a swig from his own, the water pouring down his throat in a chilly cascade. "So what's up?"

"Oh, I just thought that…y'know…"

"Midnight," John said. "It's past midnight. It's past the Omnic Crisis. And we're still here either way."

Ana remained silent. And John returned his gaze to the deserted streets of Veracruz.

It was a ghost town. And therefore the perfect place for Los Muertos to meet with members of La Cabeza de la Muerte. And with Emanuel Jose no less. The titular "Death's Head" himself. One group of so-called revolutionaries was bad enough. Striking up an alliance with one of Mexico's few remaining drug cartels would make a bad situation even worse. So, if things went to plan, they'd break up the alliance before it could forged. Take out Jose, harm Death's Head, and let the cartel assume that Los Muertos had carried out the hit themselves. Simple. Provided that they even turned up.

"Hello."

It was Ana's voice. And he could see why, as a pair of vehicles cut their way through the gloom of the streets below.

"Past midnight."

John glanced at his watch – **00:03**. Bastards. That was three minutes of his life he wasn't going to get back.

"Ey lads. Torbjörn. Got me eyes on Death's Head."

"Affirmative. Lay low."

"But-"

"You're here if we need you," John said. "That's all. Radio silence from this point."

Torbjörn signed off, and John gritted his teeth. In the good ol days, they'd have charged in, guns blazing, smashed up robots, celebrated over a cold one. Now they were…he glanced at Ana. Whatever the hell this was.

"There's the bastard."

John picked up his scope and watched as Jose stepped out of the car, cronies by his side as they met with the Los Muertos crew. He could guess that Ana wasn't happy with this, if only because she could shoot just fine without a spotter. But he wasn't going to sit this one out. Even if it only meant being a spectator. He hated this. But it was something that had to be done.

"Eyes on target," John said. "Range…five-hundred and eleven metres."

"Wind resistance?"

"Easterly. Five knots."

"…locked."

John kept watching. Wondering how people could tear their country apart after it had nearly been destroyed. Wondering again, why he couldn't go down there, open fire, and tear Los Muertos apart. Wondering…and wondering…and wondering, because not wondering would mean knowing the answers. The sad truth that the world would always need soldiers. And that "heroes" weren't always the same thing.

"John?"

"…Weapons free."

A single shot ran through the night air. Ana could have used a silencer, but they wanted the thugs below to hear it. To know that, as Jose's head exploded, that it was a sniper who'd done it, and assume that Los Muertos had arranged the hit.

"Target down."

He kept watching through the scope as the two gangs retreated to their vehicles, opening fire at one another. He smirked – human nature. It never changed. Tonight, that was to his advantage.

"Five past midnight," Ana said. She glanced at John. "It'll be seven in the morning back home."

He nodded. Ana didn't talk about her daughter much. Technically she hadn't even talked about her at all, but…but he knew. Even if Ana never said it.

Knew that it was past midnight. That "La Medianoche" had come and gone. That for Mexico, the morning had yet to come.

Maybe it had yet to come for the whole world as well.


End file.
